More Than Family
by SunnyRea
Summary: The Continental army camps at Valley Forge for the winter of 1778 where John Laurens worries and waits for Alexander Hamilton to return. When Hamilton does return his health is still a danger leading the two of them to learn how much they mean to each other. -Historical, Lams-


fJohn Laurens sits in the aide–de–camp office of General Washington's winter headquarters at Valley Forge. The fire has burnt low at this late hour and the room is near unbearably chill what with the harsh winter outside. It is yet only a couple weeks into the new year and already it seems to bode ill for their cause with the snow and dwindling supplies for their army. One usually imagines a war won or lost by battles but it can be just as similarly decided by the elements, by lack of food or clothing, by the spread of disease.

Laurens, however, thinks not about the cold or their forces, not about the supply lists he wrote all morning, he thinks about Alexander Hamilton and his continued absence. A half written letter to Laurens' father sits in front of him. He addressed the usual concerns about the war in his writing thus far. He wants to write of Hamilton, of his trip to Albany, of three months without him and an illness trapping Hamilton away but his father is not the man to hear such.

"No man is..." Laurens mumbles to himself, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

He puts his quill back in the inkpot to avoid blotting his own face. He stares at the embers in the grate, the flames all but extinguished now. Were Robert Hanson Harrison not abed, he would chide Laurens for letting the needed warmth die. Laurens hardly cares about the warmth when his thoughts are so far removed from this very room and his own comfort. He cannot cease the spinning course of his brain worrying over Hamilton.

Hamilton fell ill on the road from his assignment in Albany and was sequestered near death for many nights, as Caleb Gibbs wrote. Thus a trip of a month turned into three. He has recovered, so they hear, and should rejoin them at Valley Forge soon. Yet Laurens' fears will not cease. Should Hamilton not be truly recovered? Should a letter two weeks out of date inform them he has in fact passed on? Should he fall ill once again upon the road with no ready place to find aid? Should his return to the harshness of the Pennsylvania winter only prove worse for his constitution?

"If, if, if..." Laurens huffs at himself.

He knows such worry and speculations will do nothing for himself and less so for Hamilton. Laurens' duty is here and he must wait for Hamilton's return.

"My dear Laurens." Laurens looks up to see the Marquis de Lafayette standing in the office door. "Why ever should you be awake at such an hour?"

"Is it such an hour?"

"It is gone one."

"Is it?"

Lafayette steps into the room. "It is and yet you remain in this office?"

Laurens looks down at his letter; he cannot remember when he began writing it. Then he looks up at Lafayette again. "I had not marked the time."

"Evidently."

Laurens sighs, sitting up straighter so his bones click and his shoulders cry protest.

"And why are you yet awake?" Lafayette asks, now standing beside Laurens' table

"Why are you here this late?" Laurens counters. "Your own headquarters are on the other side of camp."

"I have been assisting the General until some half an hour past. He suggested I sleep here rather than risk the dark and cold at this hour."

"Ah."

"You, however, work in this house all hours and have certainly no requirement to continue so into the night."

Laurens purses his lips and glances at the paper on the table. "I am writing to my father."

"Ah yes?"

"Yes." Lafayette simply stares at him for a long moment. The Frenchmen has become a good friend in their months fighting together and Laurens would not wish to lie to him. Laurens sighs once. "I am distracted by worry for Hamilton."

Lafayette nods with a quiet, "of course," and something in his face tells Laurens he already knew what Laurens would say.

Laurens looks away toward the fire again. He thinks of Hamilton lying in a bed, cold and dark and open staring eyes.

"Laurens." He turns back to Lafayette touching his shoulder. "He would not wish you to worry thus."

"I cannot stop such worry until he is here with us once more. Letters of his condition, or lack thereof, certainly do not suffice."

Lafayette whispers something in French Laurens does not catch as he pulls out a chair and sits cattycorner to Laurens. "Mon ami, he is well. He has recovered well for a month since and been writing our Generals even from his bed. You know this. He is on his way to us now and shall soon grace us once more with his wit and furor."

Laurens crosses his arms. "Yes."

"So your worry is for naught."

"It is hardly for naught as you know well we read how ill he was and how long his recovery. Should it not be possible his journey here should cause his health to return to its poor state?"

"Or he might be thrown from his horse," Lafayette says, "Or this house should burn to the ground. We cannot dictate what God should bring us each day, Laurens. You may think as you wish but any manner of thing under heaven may happen you cannot foresee." Lafayette raises his eyebrows to emphasize his point. "You may fall ill sitting here without a proper fire and less sleep, oui?"

"Oui," Laurens echoes quietly.

"You may care well for our friend," Lafayette continues, "but you would do him a disservice to be ill yourself upon his return."

Laurens gives him a look. "You use my fears to your own advantage, sir."

"I use them to _your_ advantage," Lafayette corrects. "Sleep is required by all men and you waste valuable candle sitting up here for no reason into the night."

Laurens cannot argue with that. He folds up his half–finished letter then blows out the lone candle on the desk.

"Bien," Lafayette says then stands up.

Laurens stands up with him, letter in hand. He reaches over, picks the quill out of the ink pot then recaps the ink pot. Better not to dry out the ink they have. Tench Tilghman should surely let Laurens know the error of his ways in strong terms.

"I do hope you shall find some rest," Lafayette says as they walk together from the room and toward the stairs. "I know I say such things to you but one cannot help how one's heart and mind chose to tend."

Laurens glances at Lafayette, for a moment concerned, but the man simply smiles back at him as Laurens leads them up the stairs. They stop on the second landing, the doors to each of the three bedrooms closed now. Laurens wonders where the General saw fit to billet Lafayette for the evening but the Frenchman's hand already grips the bannister toward the attic floor.

"You need not sleep so high," Laurens says. "You could use my bed for this one evening."

Lafayette shakes his head. "You need not dispose yourself in favor of my comfort. I am accustomed now to the state of army life."

Laurens shakes his head. "My apologies, I did not mean to cause any sort of offense!"

Lafayette laughs. "I did not believe you to. The cot above shall serve me just as well as a bed with Meade."

Laurens chuckles. "He can prove restless."

"And I should not like to be thrown from my bed."

Laurens smiles. "Ah, so you worry more for your own comfort after all."

Lafayette gives a raised eyebrow and a slow smile. "Sleep, Laurens. I have no doubt our Hamilton will need you upon his return."

Laurens stares at Lafayette and not for the first time wonders at the man's perception. "Yes..."

Lafayette nods once, says a quick, "good night," then starts up the stairs toward the garret.

Laurens watches his retreating form for a moment then turns toward his own room. He opens the door quietly, closing it again behind him. He glances at the one bed in the room, the figure of Meade curved against the wall. Laurens swallows down a sigh as he pulls at his cravat. He places the letter to his father atop the dresser near the window, soon followed by his cravat. He folds the cravat in half then again in some effort to keep it crisp. He gazes out the window at the snow and woods beyond as he pulls off his coat. He room is colder even than the office below. The General's bedroom and the other aide bedroom both have fireplaces; this room does not.

"Alas..." Laurens mutters

He sits on the chair beside the dresser and pulls at his boots. One proves troublesome and bangs on the floor when it finally comes loose unexpectedly. Meade stirs in the bed, rolling over toward Laurens but his eyes do not open. Laurens blows out a breath and leans back against the wall, one boot off and one on.

He would rather not worry; he would rather not feel this ache in his chest, in his stomach. The rash and wild part of him wants to ride a horse north until he may intercept Hamilton and lead him safely back. He never intended his care to plunge so deep; he did not intend this devotion, this unbreakable attachment. He may have likened to Hamilton upon first meeting him but he would not have foreseen such melancholy over missing time and a fear of loss.

"Why must it be so?" Laurens asks himself aloud then mutters. "Why could you simply not fall ill?" He wishes he could only turn his fear to annoyance. He might weather it more ably then.

Laurens sighs once more then returns to his boots, dropping the second beside the first. He stands up in his stockings, pacing back toward the window. He watches the distant light of fires in their infantry lines, bright dots in the night.

"Come home, Alexander," Laurens whispers as though his words could travel miles. "Come home well."

"Laurens?" Meade mutters, his voice thick with sleep. Laurens turns his head as Meade pushes his face into the pillow. "Come sleep; you shall warm this ice box."

Laurens chuckles once. "I shall soon, go back to sleep."

* * *

The conditions at Valley Forge are the worst Laurens has yet to experience in the war. He has fought in several battles, slept on floors, thin cots and rode more miles than he can recall. Valley Forge is an encampment meant for the writings of Dante. Should they think God against them with the winter he has sent? Are they meant to lose this war, not through a mighty battle but a slow descent into nothing?

Laurens shivers at the table in General Washington's headquarters, Tilghman seated close beside him. The fire is lit but Laurens wonders if the warmth does anything for the room. He and Tilghman sit pressed close together, propriety aside, to gain warmth from the other. Meade was sent out this morning with messages and in the hopes of learning more from Congress about any supplies for their army. Harrison sits alone at the other table against the opposite wall nearer the door. All three, however, work on information gathering for the upcoming Continental Congress Camp Committee which is to address the state of the army and needed improvements.

"I am finished," Tilghman says, holding up the stack of papers in front of him.

Harrison turns in his chair. "The clothing?"

"Yes, rudimentary as it is."

"We must trust what the Generals tell us."

"I should doubt they tell us less than their men should need," Laurens interjects.

"And more would not go amiss," Tilghman finishes, handing the papers to Harrison as he steps over to take them.

"I have the completed details of our winter food supplies and it is insufficient for a wintering of many months... and with Philadelphia barred from us." Harrison makes a frustrated noise.

"Here," Laurens says standing and walking up beside Harrison. "The General will have thoughts and you might concern yourself with matters of ranking order instead."

Harrison frowns. "You write to your father in Congress?"

"Oh, always, Old secretary." Harrison frowns at the new nickname – a misunderstanding involving a Frenchman, a desk and Harrison's perceived age – but hands the stack of papers to Laurens regardless. "Thank you."

Laurens leaves the office and needs only two steps to stand at the General's open door. He raps once on the wood frame before poking his head around the edge of the door. "General?"

General Washington glances up briefly from the letter in his hand. "Yes?"

"I have a matter which will likely cause you some distress but I imagine you already know what I might share."

"If it is of Hamilton's progress to us, I think neither you nor I need be distressed so."

Laurens' eyes widen with surprise. "Sir?"

The General looks at him properly and notices the papers in Laurens' hands. "But that is not what you have come to speak with me about?"

"No, but as you mention..."

The General smiles as he stands from his chair. "We received word of Lt. Col. Hamilton at Peeks Kill a week past, so his progress appears as hoped."

"Ah." Laurens nods. New Jersey feels closer than New York but it is not close enough. "Thank you. sir."

"The Marquis mentioned your continued concern over Hamilton's state of health."

Laurens frowns. He should ask Lafayette in the future to keep their discussions in confidence. Then again perhaps Lafayette does not see such a need. "Only that he had been close to death, sir; I think it worth some concern."

The General makes a noise of assent. "I think Hamilton would consider it a waste of his talents to leave us before the war's end."

Laurens laughs once, surprised at the Generals humor. "Perhaps, sir."

"I should imagine we shall have Hamilton back among us in a week if his pace should keep."

"I would rather he arrive well than soon."

"With the committee meeting soon upon us I would rather Hamilton back soon more than anything." The General takes the papers from Laurens' hands and wanders about the room toward his desk. "Though I have no doubt of all your fellow aides abilities, we all agree upon your compatriot's way with words."

"Indeed, sir. "

Laurens cannot disagree that the best man to compile the state of their army into written form would be Hamilton. They all can certainly contribute information and statistics and their General will do well to present it but it is Hamilton who's words so well match the General's mind and put forth the most eloquent version of their message. Laurens cannot help but be charmed at Hamilton's prose himself.

"Now," General Washington says, turning through the pages. "Supplies."

"Yes, sir."

Come afternoon, after several hours spent in concert with the General determining their stores and what they should need for an extended winter, Laurens finds himself walking through camp. Huts of varying degrees of stability stand in rows. A few already need repairs from the weight of snow upon them.

He stops beside one to help two soldiers lift a new beam to the man waiting on the roof, nails in hand.

"Thank you, sir," the one man says with a cough into his hand.

Laurens nods back and tries not think about how pale the man looks or the dark circles under his eyes.

Did Hamilton look so in his sick bed? Was Hamilton as cold to the touch as these men here?

"Mind the gaps," Laurens says to one of the men as he walks on. "It will do you no good should the snow still find its way in."

"Yes, sir."

Laurens stops at two more cabins as he walks on. He helps fell a tree for the wood a new cabin needs. He is stopped several times with requests for more rations and inquiries about boots. He steps into one cabin where a man cannot rise from his cot.

"A fever, sir, do you think?" The corporal asks him.

"I could not say," Laurens replies as he stares at the man, his eyelids fluttering and body shaking. "I shall send a doctor here as I can."

Laurens leaves the cabin, his pace quicker as he makes for The General's headquarters and those who may help. He thinks he should write to Hamilton not to return, he should be safer now in New Jersey, in New York, far away from the worsening men of their army.

"As much as I would wish you near..." Laurens says to himself. He fears more.

* * *

Two days later Laurens sits on the back steps of the General's headquarters. He sent his father a letter some days past with details about a plan he has been considering for many months; the possibility of a black regiment of soldiers. His view on the men in bondage is very different from his father's. His father speaks of desiring a way better than slavery but his actions speak different. Laurens hopes he has a solution, a start that can aid those slaves and their cause. He already sent his first draft of his plan but he should write something better, something more detailed and thought. It is hard to concentrate these days. At times he cannot tell if it is his thoughts of Hamilton turning over and over or the cold itself. He is from South Carolina, their winters are never so severe. Laurens would not wish any to coddle him but he was unprepared for this. Perhaps they all were.

Laurens stares at the papers in his hand, a copy of what he wrote originally to his father. The words seem to blur on the page. Letters reforming in other sentences, other languages, French somehow overwriting the English. Then he realizes it is not the words on the page but words beside him, spoken words.

"Laurens, es–tu bien? Laurens..."

Laurens blinks up at Lafayette standing near him on the top step, the door to the house open behind him. "Marquis."

"Mon deiu..." Lafayette walks down two steps so he stands right beside Laurens. "What are you doing? You shall freeze."

"I am well," Laurens counters.

"You are not, if you should see the red of your eyes and how pale your face."

"It is cold."

"Indeed and you are outside."

"Much of our army is."

Lafayette pinches his lips and gestures toward the rest of camp. "And cabins have been built to solve this. You have a house of stone at your back. Why do you sit here?"

"I..." Laurens is not sure. He wanted to be alone? He wanted to be with Hamilton, to be closer should his horse arrive. "I wished for air," he lies.

Lafayette sighs heavily. "You are continuing your worry is what you are doing. Did you believe none should find you here?"

Laurens frowns, staring at the snow on the ground. He then stands up next to Lafayette; his joints are stiffer than he would expect. How long has he sat out here? "I am well."

"That is not what I have asked nor the case. I understand your worry –"

"Lafayette, you need not –"

"But he shall return, soon I dare say, and he shall be well when he arrives. Would you not be?"

Laurens shuts his mouth and stares at Lafayette. His face is stern. The man is not simply espousing to coax Laurens indoors; he is genuinely concerned.

"I do not endeavor to make myself unwell."

"I should hope not but you must best your fears for your friend and withstand the wait."

Laurens looks away, feeling a weight of truthfulness upon him. "He is the dearest friend to me, Marquis, and I could not be there to aid him in his illness. When Gibbs wrote that Hamilton could die, I..."

Lafayette nods. "I felt the same but it has passed; he is returning even now."

"I shall not feel comfort until I see him as such before me," Laurens snaps without meaning to. Lafayette stares at him, his mouth a thin line. Laurens shakes his head and touches Lafayette's arm briefly. "My apologies, my friend, I do not mean to become carried away."

"I take no offense."

Laurens smiles. He madly wants to tell Lafayette about first kisses and beautiful red hair, about intense eyes and the sound of his voice. He wants to ask Lafayette about his wife, about what love he must feel. Instead he looks toward the crack of the door open to the house.

"We should move indoors."

Lafayette nods. "As I have said."

"Yes, you are quite right, your ranking is not without merit, General."

Lafayette chuckles and puts both hands on Laurens' shoulders. He touches one hand to Laurens' forehead then drops his back to his arms. "You do not feel feverish yet; I have arrived in time."

Laurens grins. "My hero of France."

Lafayette smiles. "Indeed. Should you be otherwise Hamilton would not forgive me."

Then he turns Laurens around by the shoulder and pushes him gently toward the door. Laurens wonders for a moment what Lafayette thinks, what he knows.

* * *

On January 20th, Alexander Hamilton arrives at Valley Forge.

It is nearing the midday meal when Laurens returns to headquarters. He spent the morning gathering correspondence from the various generals, Knox and Wayne and Weedon, which require General Washington's reading or contribution. He opens the front door, turning around to knock snow off his boots just outside the door so he tracks none inside. He takes off his hat when he closes the door and some snow falls to the floor before him.

"Blast," Laurens mutters as he hangs his hat on a peg on the wall.

He wonders if he should find a cloth to dry it but, by the state of the floor, he is perhaps more considerate than some who enter the house.

"Why Laurens!" Laurens turns and finds Caleb Gibbs striding toward him from out of the aide–de–camp office. He grabs Laurens by the hand and shakes vigorously. "What a pleasure it is to see you!"

"Gibbs!" Laurens says with surprise. "You are back?"

"Yes, not two hours past and famished."

"You have not come to the right place then," Laurens says, somehow managing levity as he tries to peer around Gibbs into the office.

Gibbs barks a laugh. "As I hear. But I suppose I could eat the snow and be well full?"

Laurens laughs once awkwardly. "A might less sustaining."

"Poor me then. Ah but yes, Hamilton!" Gibbs cries over his shoulder, letting Laurens' hand go and turning around. "Laurens is here."

Gibbs moves and Laurens sees perfectly into the office. Meade sits at one table near the window, John Fitzgerald stands close by the fire and Alexander Hamilton leans against the table between them. The three men all turn at Gibb's words to look at the two of them in the doorway. Meade says something about Laurens appearing chill and spending too much time out of doors while Fitzgerald remarks on Gibbs' desire for food, and has he said so to Laurens yet? Laurens, however, does not heed either of their comments because all he marks is Hamilton staring right back at him.

Hamilton grips his hat in one hand, his hair back in a tight braid and his brow somewhat wet either from the snow or the ride. His uniform looks clean, though his boots have some dirt from the road. His eyes look just the same, his smile wide and three months feels like it must have been a lifetime not to see this dream before him.

Laurens finally manages a rough, "Hamilton..." from his lips.

Gibbs walks into the room at near the same time, saying something about eggs so the emotion in Laurens' voice is lost for the other men. Hamilton, however, stands up straight and walks toward him.

"Laurens."

He drops his hat on the table nearer the door as he stops in front of Laurens. His smile looks fit to burst from his face and Laurens realizes his face must bear a similar look of adoration better concealed.

He clears his throat quickly and holds out his hand to Hamilton. "It is good to see you returned and recovered."

Hamilton nods once quickly, the motion jerky as if he had to remind himself to do so. "I am pleased to be back."

Hamilton takes Laurens' hand and shakes once. He squeezes hard, his thumb sliding over the back of Laurens' hand for a moment and it feels like a kiss. Laurens pulls his hand back because, if he does not, he will pull Hamilton into his arms right there in the office.

He smiles, not taking his eyes off Hamilton, and clears his throat again. "When we learned of your illness in November we were very concerned."

"Yes."

Laurens voice drops. "Gibbs wrote you were like not to survive."

Hamilton's smile lessens. He pulls up his hands for a moment then stops and rubs his palms together. "It is true I was quite unwell but by the grace of God I did recover and am here among you once more."

"Yes."

"Yes," Hamilton repeats firmly at the unintended hesitancy in Laurens' tone. "I was confined longer than I should have wished but I would not allow a fever to best me now."

Laurens forces a laugh. "The General said much the same of you."

Hamilton's eyebrows rise. "Did he?"

"He said you would not leave us so when you are needed."

Hamilton nods, threads his fingers together once then pulls them apart, dropping his arms to his sides. "I had much I needed to return to here."

Laurens breathes in slowly. "Much that could not do without you."

"Yes."

"Hamilton!"

Tilghman appears suddenly like an excitable puppy at Laurens' side. He claps his hands together once. "And here you are right as rain! We worried for near a month it felt. Laurens' running for the riders each day of news. And now here you are as though from a pleasure jaunt, not a sight of any infirmity at all."

"I could tell you of some infirmity he showed," Gibbs said gravely. "I have not seen the like. I am amazed he stands here now."

"Gibbs," Hamilton chides harshly. "They need not hear of my state as it is passed!"

Gibbs puts up his hands in supplication. "Aye, sir."

"Our fellow aide back from the dead," Meade jokes.

"Near death," Tilghman counters.

"A state we may all join as this winter quarter progresses."

"Of course, Meade, should you choose to starve or freeze?"

"You make light?" Fitzgerald says in consternation.

"I must or I should weep," Meade replies with a cross of his arms.

"I wish you were returning to a more warm and bountiful welcome," Laurens says to Hamilton as Tilghman walks over to Meade.

"You... all of you, are all the welcome I should require."

Laurens nods once. He glances down at the large stack of letters tied together in his hands. He suddenly feels he cannot be in the same room with Hamilton, not when they must act the part of friends, when they must keep distance between them.

"I must deliver these to the General."

Hamilton's smile falters slightly. "Oh."

Laurens smiles and nods. "I shall return. I... we shall speak more." He searches Hamilton's face. "You and I... please."

Hamilton's smile widens again and he clasps his hands behind his back. "Yes, yes we shall." He adds. "Please."

Then Laurens turns and leaves the room his cheeks pained from his smile.

* * *

General Washington sends Laurens out of headquarters again to visit the remaining Generals around camp. Laurens stops in the door of the aide–de–camp office to try and catch Hamilton's eye. However, Harrison appears to have sequestered him in some deep conversation where he sits already with a pen in hand. Laurens watches him for a brief moment, smile on his face. Then he turns and walks from the house.

Laurens spends more than an hour walking the far reaches of camp, Varnum's brigade and Patterson and Glover. He ends at Lafayette's own headquarters before starting back toward Washington's headquarters.

Lafayette grins when he sees Laurens walk through his door. He stares for a moment then he stands from his desk. "Hamilton is back."

Laurens wants to ask how Lafayette should know but he fears what Lafayette would say. "Yes, he is."

"I shall accompany you." Lafayette picks up his hat from a side table. "I do long to see him."

Laurens picks up Lafayette's correspondence to add to his pile as they turn toward the front of the house. "He appears most recovered and well."

Lafayette nods as he puts on his cape and they exit through the front door. "As we expected." He grins as he ties the cloak in place. "You see? Your worry was for naught."

"I suspect all worry is for naught, is that not so?"

"Quite so but it is an emotion we cannot help, as you have said."

Laurens nods, attempting to tie some twine around his stack of letters. It would not do to drop one without noticing and lose imperative information. After his third attempt at nearly dropping all the letters, Lafayette puts his hands around the letters to hold them in place so Laurens may tie the twine.

"Thank you."

Lafayette only smiles back.

The pair of them walk through the snow up Valley Road along the Valley Forge Creek. In most cases, at least Lafayette would ride his horse through camp but with the weather conditions even the horses are worse for the wear with the snow and wind and need not be taxed without necessity. So they content themselves on foot.

They walk for some fifteen minutes in silence, passing a small pack of camp followers with what must be some stolen food from surrounding farms. Neither Laurens nor Lafayette rebuke them.

"And how do you fare?" Lafayette asks Laurens.

"I?" Laurens asks in confusion.

"You were somewhat lacking in concern for your own health not some days past."

Laurens shakes his head. "I am well."

"Yes?"

Laurens shoots him a look but Lafayette appears innocent in his question as always.

"Yes," Laurens echoes.

When they arrive at the General's headquarters, Meade meets them at the door having, 'spied them trudging through the snow.'

"And I am sure you are come to see the man of the hour."

"Meade," Hamilton groans from the office while Tilghman huffs, "Kidder, really," in the same moment.

Laurens cannot help himself grinning at the party, merry for once in many weeks despite the weather outside.

"And now you are finally returned," Lafayette says to Hamilton, "I had to come and welcome you at once."

"I am quite pleased to see you as well," Hamilton says, his eyes darting over Lafayette's shoulder once to Laurens. "I am quite glad to be back with you all. "

Laurens thinks he can be happy with the world in this moment.

The group of them are soon back at table with pens in hand. Hamilton told the General he was ready to return to work at once to no one's surprise. Laurens and Hamilton sit side by side near the window. Laurens tries to read a letter from the Marquis de Burlington but finds his attention continually drawn by Hamilton beside him; the movement of his hand, the tick of his eyes every so often toward Laurens as well.

"The General has you at work for the committee meeting at once?"

Hamilton glances at him with a rueful look. "I did say I wished to begin work immediately."

"You missed our letter writing so?"

Hamilton chuckles. "I find myself in a more purposeful mode at present. The structure and state of our army is a far more herculean task to put on paper."

Laurens makes a 'hmm' noise. "I may certainly assist you as needed."

Hamilton stares at him for a beat then nods. "I would prefer it."

Hamilton's knee presses against Laurens' under the table and Laurens has to bite his lip. He did not realize the ache of an absence of more intimate touch until it returned. He worries for a moment that his attachment to Hamilton is too strong. They met not even six months past and spent only truly two together. How can he care so? He has felt such feeling in the past but not like this. Perhaps it is that red hair, that smile, his wit; perhaps Hamilton is simply unlike any other.

* * *

It is not until late in the evening that Laurens and Hamilton are able to find each other alone.

Hamilton spent several hours in consultation with Harrison and General Washington over the Committee meeting document Hamilton writes. Laurens saw him a few times, flying in and out of the General's office with many pages of notes. Laurens assists Gibbs for several hours in surveying newly built cabins in Maxwell's brigade so by the time the two of them return to headquarters they are chilled through.

Gibbs stops in the office to speak with Meade and Tilghman who work with a pair of ledgers between them near the fire. Laurens, however, ascends immediately above stairs. He fears his boots may have a hole with the dampness he feels in his stocking. Laurens trudges into the room he shares with Meade, some feeling returning to his limbs. He then hears 'John' from the adjacent room. He turns and Hamilton walks through the door.

Laurens' mind spins with many thoughts at once – does Hamilton still feel the same as he did three months ago; has distance made what they had look like an error; does he feel less or more; did he miss Laurens as Laurens missed him?

Then a second later Hamilton closes the door firmly behind him. He smiles wide and lets out a sigh as if he has held it all day. "Finally."

Laurens smiles. "Hello."

Hamilton takes three steps into Laurens personal space. He reaches out his hand, pulls Laurens close by the back of his neck and kisses him hard and long until he must pull back for breath. He sighs again against Laurens' lips. "I have wished to do that since I saw you once more."

"As have I."

Hamilton presses his forehead against Laurens'. "I have missed you."

Laurens lets out a small huff of disbelief. "You cannot imagine my struggle, Hamilton."

Hamilton chuckles. "Indeed I can, for I had the same."

"Oh yes?" Laurens says, threading his fingers up into Hamilton's hair. "You had not the fear of my death as I did of you; a fever and you collapsed on the road and I forced to stay here when I should have wished to ride to your aid. If you had died without me by your side... if you had died at all..."

Hamilton makes soft shushing sounds, kisses Laurens once then pulls back just enough. "I am returned."

"Yes."

Hamilton smiles at him. "And quite recovered."

"I should hope."

Hamilton presses closer to Laurens so the heat of his body cuts through the cold of Laurens' own. "And I have missed you," he repeats.

Laurens thinks Hamilton looks every bit a present to be unwrapped.

Laurens kisses Hamilton again, winds one arm around Hamilton to keep him close and holds his face with the other. He kisses hard and deep, tastes what he has missed, feels Hamilton respond to him, one hand pulling at Laurens' hair while the other grips the lapel of his coat. Hamilton stumbles back once with the force Laurens' eagerness. He presses his advantage until Hamilton knocks back into the closed door with a pleased groan. Laurens pulls at buttons on Hamilton's vest because all he can think of is touching Hamilton's skin.

"Laurens," Hamilton says trying to pull back.

Laurens only kisses Hamilton again. "No, please."

"Laurens." Hamilton puts his hands on either side of Laurens' face to still him. "As much as I should wish you to strip me bare in this moment." Laurens' breath catches. "The house is yet fully awake and we are both expected downstairs for supper and my work on the committee document."

Laurens huffs. "I would prefer you not be sensible."

Hamilton laughs once. "Alas."

Laurens takes a step back but his hands linger over Hamilton's chest. Hamilton strokes his hand over Laurens' once, kisses him quickly with a murmured 'missed you.'

Then he stands straighter, adjusts his waistcoat. "Are you at liberty to assist me later on the letter for the committee? I have much information I still need before beginning a draft."

"I should be glad to."

Hamilton nods once, his eyes lingering on Laurens ' lips. Then he says, "Supper," and opens the bedroom door. "Are you coming?"

Laurens gestures behind him. "I must change my boots and stockings first."

Hamilton smirks. "I could help."

Laurens raises both eyebrows. "Do not start what you cannot finish, Alexander. "

Hamilton's lips twitch then he turns and moves back to the stairs. Laurens grins to himself.

After a light supper due more to lack of adequate food then any sort of decrease in need, Laurens and Hamilton return to the aide office. Harrison rises above stairs with a comment about writing to his daughters. Fitzgerald takes Tilghman with him to the Commissary General leaving only Meade with the pair. Meade assists in the fact gathering for another hour, paging through payment ledgers before Laurens encourages him to find rest.

"Hamilton and I shall fare well without you."

"Thank you, Kidder," Hamilton calls after him.

Meade flashes a tired smile, "do enjoy your lists. "

Laurens and Hamilton look at each once Meade leaves. "And what shall I fetch for you now, dear Alexander?"

Hamilton smirks and taps his quill on a blotting paper. "You are quite enough."

"Especially with this list of state regiments."

"Ah! Yes indeed." Hamilton looks over the list, counting as he goes. "Ninety-seven?"

"Yes."

"And inadequate men between them."

"If you should count the ill–"

"Yes, and furloughs –"

"If they should return..."

"It would do well to have ranking officers return to their states to bring back deserters or any men which were left behind. "

Laurens frowns. "And should this be enough to bolster our ranks? And even then should they come here with the state of our supplies?"

"It should follow that they bring such that they can with them," Hamilton insists.

"They may prove less able than we should wish."

Hamilton sighs. "I am to write recommendations. It is the committee who must begin the call to action."

Hamilton frowns at the list then pulls a ledger closer to him. He mutters to himself for a moment. "New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts and New Hampshire, are full to their quota... hmm, North Carolina is worst off."

Laurens snorts.

Hamilton shoots him a look. "Are you severe upon your northern sister?"

"It is merely a name."

Hamilton chuckles and traces a circle over the back of Laurens' hand. "Regardless of your opinion their ranks require more men."

"Of course."

Laurens watches Hamilton as he slides the regiment list aside and starts to write bullets on another page. The candle light causes shadows on his face; gullies under his eyes and ghosts under his lips. He sifts so dots of light appear in his eyes.

Laurens smiles. "I am glad you are come back."

Hamilton turns to him, all light on his face and the spread of a smile as his fingers twist with Laurens', "as am I."

* * *

Laurens rises above stairs for sleep after two in the evening. Though he tries his best to convince Hamilton of the late hour and sleep needed, Hamilton remains in the office at work. Come morning, Laurens and Meade wake each other up with the sun through their window, Meade nearly knocking Laurens to the floor in his surprised jolt up.

"My apologies Laurens!" Meade admonishes as Laurens stumbles from the bed. "I had it in my mind the hour was far later."

Laurens only laughs at him sleepily. "You are safe."

When Laurens makes his way downstairs, Harrison handing him a mug of coffee as Harrison passes into the General's office, Laurens sees Hamilton already seated in the same spot Laurens left him last night. Laurens sits down beside him, holding out his mug. Hamilton's eyebrows perk up and he puts his hand over Laurens', takes a big gulp of the coffee then pushes the mug, still in Laurens' hand, back toward him. "Thank you."

Laurens frowns, watching Hamilton. "Did you sleep last night?"

"Hmm?" Hamilton asks with what sounds like distraction but Laurens' suspects is feigned.

"Sleep. Did you sleep?"

Hamilton laughs once. "Oh, Laurens." He gestures to the books on the inset shelves on the far side of the fireplace. "Might you fetch me the ledger on ranking officers of the army?"

"Oh?"

"I am of the mind of increasing such ranks to better our infantry."

Laurens purses his lips but stands up again, sipping the coffee himself now, and looks for the appropriate book on the shelf. Laurens returns with the ledger, laying it beside Hamilton's hand. Hamilton hands him back a piece of paper with notes on army clothing and uniforms.

"I thought, as you have been here a month longer than myself –"

"Yes," Laurens says, writing the word 'BOOTS' on the page in large letters "Indeed."

"Food, gentlemen!" Tilghman says, putting a plate with four thin sausage down in front of them. Hamilton pulls his papers back quickly with a glare at Tilghman. Tilghman scoffs. "Do not give me such eyes when I only aim to feed you. Would you write on nothing at all?"

"I would write on paper."

Tilghman rolls his eyes. "Aye, yes, sir."

"If he will not eat them, I am willing and able," Fitzgerald says from the opposite table.

Tilghman waves a dismissive hand at Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald makes a 'humph' noise then turns back around in his chair.

Lauren picks up one of the forks on the plate, spearing a sausage. "I note you have not answered my question."

Hamilton glances at him a moment then back to his pages. "What is that?"

"About your rest?"

"I have begun a draft of the committee letter," Hamilton says in some exasperation. "Had I been able to return earlier I would have it finished it by now but, as it is, I have less time and must focus my exertions here."

Laurens takes a bite of his sausage, swallowing it quickly. "That sounds much like a no."

Hamilton picks up the second fork, stabs one sausage and shoves the whole thing in his mouth, chewing quickly as he continues to write flowing sentences. Laurens sighs and focuses on the task Hamilton gave him as to the matter of clothing.

Later that morning, Laurens leaves headquarters for several hours with the General and Meade to review the state of the troops. Meade and Laurens take notes as General Washington speaks to his generals to learn their various requirements. No doubt some of this will need to be added to Hamilton's report. When they return to the house, Harrison waylays General Washington with letters from Henry Knox and John Lacey.

Laurens stops in the aide–de–camp office door as Meade walks inside to find himself a space to work. "Where is Hamilton?"

Fitzgerald looks up at Laurens. "He moved upstairs to the larger bedroom. His books and papers were beginning to overtake Tilghman."

Tilghman raises his hand as if Laurens should not know it was him Fitzgerald refers to.

"So he felt," Fitzgerald continues, "he could use the table in that room without inconveniencing any other man's work."

"How considerate," Laurens replies dryly.

Laurens steps over to Meade and adds his notes to Meade's pile. Meade jerks his head up, possibly to protest, but Laurens holds up a hand. "But a moment."

Laurens turns from the office and hurries up the stairs to check on Hamilton. No doubt, he has buried himself in books by now and should need assistance pulling himself out once more. Laurens walks past the General's chambers then pokes his head into the next bedroom. The cheerful greeting he had planned to speak dies on his tongue as he spies Hamilton leaning over with both forearms on the table, papers crushed between his hands and a quill on the floor.

"Hamilton?"

Hamilton turns his head slowly. "Laurens?"

"Are you unwell?" Laurens steps into the room, stooping to pick up the fallen pen.

"I am..." Hamilton swallows once and shakes his head. "I think..."

Laurens puts his hand against Hamilton's forehead. It is warm to the touch, warmer certainly than the house and fire would cause even with Laurens' cold hand. His face is flushed and Laurens sees sweat along his hairline. "You are not well..."

Hamilton stares at the papers in front of him. "I may not be."

"You are working too hard; you did not sleep."

"This report must be done in time for the committee meeting."

"And ill health will not aid its completion."

Hamilton sits up with a grimace, one hand rubbing over his arm. "If I stood a moment, perhaps the cold air outside would aid some of my senses."

"Cold should not –"

But Hamilton stands even as Laurens protests. However, his attempt as standing is short lived as he stumbles to the right and Laurens takes a large step forward to catch him. Hamilton sags somewhat in Laurens' arms.

"John..."

"Here now," Laurens says, steering Hamilton carefully to one of the beds. "Sit here."

Laurens pulls at Hamilton's coat, getting it off his shoulders as Hamilton sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Lie back," Laurens says, easing Hamilton down until his head rests on the pillow. "Do not move."

"No," Hamilton says quietly.

Laurens hurries from the room back downstairs. He ducks out the side door to the kitchen. One woman stokes the fire, oblivious to his entry. Laurens looks around quickly then sees what he had hoped for, a pitcher of water. He grabs it without asking and turns back around again.

Inside, Tilghman spies him as he starts back up the stairs. "Why, Laurens, you are like to spill your pitcher if you should rush so."

"Hamilton is not well," Laurens says, without stopping.

Laurens stops in his bedroom first to grab one of his handkerchiefs then returns to Hamilton's side. Hamilton lies with his eye closed, his cravat pulled loose and breathing slowly. Laurens pulls one chair around beside the bed, sits down in it then puts the pitcher on the floor. He dips his handkerchief in the cold water then presses it against Hamilton's forehead.

Hamilton opens his eyes with a hiss. "Oh lord."

"I am sorry but you are feverish."

"I cannot be..." Hamilton says. "The letter –"

"Will wait a time for you yet."

Hamilton sighs, his one hand searching out Laurens'. Hamilton's hands are cold.

"I should get a physician," Laurens says in concern.

"No," Hamilton says, "please no."

"But you are –"

"They will do little more than you can," Hamilton says quietly. "You are right that I should simply rest."

"Your fever, should it grow worse…"

"It will not."

"Hamilton."

"I am abed," Hamilton says with a grimace. "I shall stay here."

Laurens leaves the wet handkerchief on Hamilton's head and pulls his hand back. He loosens Hamilton's cravat some more, feeling the cold flesh of Hamilton's neck.

"If you should survive your fever without me there is no chance you should succumb to it now," Laurens says firmly.

Hamilton chuckles weakly. "I concur."

Laurens squeezes Hamilton's hand and sighs. "Why did you not sleep? You knew of your recent illness, why should you chance this?"

Hamilton closes his eyes with and smile. "I had recovered for some weeks. Why should my fever return now?"

"Because of your immediate and flurried return to work in all the intensity of fashion you employ."

"Ah, that."

"Yes, that."

Hamilton chuckles again then sighs. "My body aches so."

Laurens squeezes Hamilton's hand and checks needlessly that the cloth on his head is still cool. "I know not how to aid you in this."

Hamilton shakes his head a little, making the cloth slip somewhat to one side. "I must simply rest now."

"Laurens?"

Laurens drops Hamilton's hand on the bed and turns to Tilghman in the door. He holds a glass in his hand. "I asked Sarah in the kitchens. She made this drink of herbs. She said it could soothe any aches or pain."

Laurens smiles; Tench Tilghman an unknowing angel. "Thank you, Tench."

Laurens stands up and takes the glass from him. Tilghman peers at Hamilton for a moment then looks to Laurens again. "Should I call for one of the regiment surgeons?"

"No," Hamilton says firmly from the bed.

Laurens purses his lip. "I do not believe as yet."

"I shall inform his Excellency and the other aides."

"Thank you."

"If Hamilton is to stay abed I could continue his place with writing the –"

"No," Hamilton says, suddenly propping himself up on one elbow. "I can finish it."

"Hamilton," Lauren chides. "Stop."

"No, I shall rest then I will be well able to rise once more and finish it."

Laurens knows how much pride Hamilton takes in his work. Laurens looks at Tilghman whose expression is unconvinced. "I can assist him too. Gibbs should be able to take on any extra work I cannot see to."

Tilghman makes a 'hmm' noise.

Laurens smiles congenially as he can. "Trust me."

Tilghman nods at Laurens and finally turns from the doorway. Lauren looks down at Hamilton again, laid on his back once more. "Here."

Hamilton takes the glass and sits up enough to drink some. He makes a face but does not complain of the taste which must be at least somewhat unpleasant.

"Drink it all."

Hamilton gives him an amused look. "I intend to, dear. As much as you may..." Hamilton takes a slow breath, "may think I have no care for my health... I do."

"Good." Laurens takes the glass back once Hamilton finishes the draft. "I care for it too."

Hamilton lies back down, putting his cold cloth back in place on his forehead. "Fortunate." He closes his eyes and breathes in and out several times, shifting some on the bed.

Laurens looks down at Hamilton's boots. He puts the empty glass on the table then slides his chair over so he might pull off Hamilton's boots.

"Laurens, you need not –"

"Shush."

Hamilton smiles fondly and does not protest again. Laurens leaves Hamilton's boots together at the end of the bed then scoots his chair back. He looks at the empty glass, to the cloth on Hamilton's head, his red cheeks. He wants to do something more.

"Are you cold?" Laurens asks. He stands up and walks to the other bed, picking up a red checkered blanket folded at the foot. "No doubt you are."

Laurens unfolds the blanket and places it over Hamilton, being sure to cover his feet.

"Laurens, you need not mother me so."

"I will."

"Laurens..."

"There." Laurens sits down, checking his handiwork so Hamilton appears properly covered. He sits less than a minute then stands once more. "What more should I do? More water perhaps or are you hungry? No... you best not eat much with a fever. Perhaps..."

"Read me the draft."

Laurens stops pacing which he had not realized he had begun. "Pardon?"

"My draft, for the committee." Hamilton gestures to the table. "It is not finished but it is half done."

"Oh." Laurens steps to the table trying to determine which stack of papers is Hamilton's draft. He finally notices a stack more orderly than the rest face down on the table. He picks up the pile reading 'To a Continental Congress Camp Committee' at the head. "An apt title."

Hamilton chuckles. "Read it."

Laurens sits down again, clears his throat and starts to read aloud, "The numerous defects, in our present military establishment, rendering many reformations..."

Laurens reads through Hamilton's whole draft with him, Hamilton commenting every now and then about something he must later add and Laurens making a note on the page.

Meade visits near supper time with a mug of tea. "Despite the British tax and American pride, tea remains a restorative drink, does it not?"

"I fear for the tea you might make, Kidder," Laurens teases.

Meade only gives him a lofty look. "Any woman would be impressed with my skill."

"Or any man now," Laurens counters, "unless Hamilton finds you lacking."

Meade chuckles. "He shall find that difficult."

Laurens frowns then turns to the bed. Hamilton appears to have fallen asleep. Laurens smiles then stands and takes the tea from Meade. "Thank you."

"Best to let him rest," Meade says as Laurens carries the tea back to the table. "And yourself."

Laurens looks at Meade again. He opens his mouth but closes it quickly. He looks at Hamilton under the blanket, his breath slow with sleep. Laurens can think of no rational reason other than 'I want to be with him' to give to Meade. Instead, he says, "you are right."

He leaves the tea on the table and follows Meade from the room. He glances back to make sure everything appears right with Hamilton. He does not know what he might expect to see as he is no doctor – he thinks of Geneva, school, what he wanted to be. Then he closes the door, turning to face Meade again. "Shall we?"

Meade smiles and the two of them move downstairs once more.

"And how fares our little lion?" Harrison asks as Laurens walks into the aide–de–camp office.

Laurens attempts an unconcerned laugh. "Sleeping."

"With tea at the ready," Meade adds.

"Tea that will grow cold before he rises," Tilghman says with a quill between his teeth. "Your efforts were in vain, Kidder."

Meade sighs. "Should I take it back?"

"I would think that ungentlemanly."

"But he does not know he has it."

"I should tell him."

"Well really, Tilghman."

Tilghman grins, the pen from his teeth dropping into his lap. He closes his book and puts it on the table. "Perhaps cold tea will sustain him just as well."

"Perish the thought."

"Are you through?" Harrison asks flatly.

"Yes," Meade and Tilghman chorus.

"Gentlemen." They four of them turn to Fitzgerald in the doorway. "Might you care for an evening repass?"

"Is it of food?" Tilghman asks blandly.

"Not for you," Fitzgerald says.

Tilghman makes a noise of indignation while Harrison and Meade laugh. Laurens only smiles at the jesting, his thoughts still on the man upstairs.

As soon as he is able to leave the table from supper, Laurens gives his apologies and climbs the stairs once more to check on Hamilton. He knows he can do little but supply water and stand watch but he will do that as much as possible. He opens the door quietly, should Hamilton still be sleeping. He sees, however, Hamilton open his eyes as Laurens steps in.

"I did not mean to wake you."

"You did not."

Laurens closes the door behind himself then sits down in the chair next to Hamilton's bed.

"Sleep comes erratically, I find, with such fevers," Hamilton says to Laurens' concerned look. "You need not think me worse."

"Nor better." Hamilton's pallor is drained and gray.

"I will be."

Laurens takes the cloth off Hamilton's head and dips it in the water pitcher again. He wrings out the excess water then places it on Hamilton's forehead once more. He smiles. "There."

Hamilton makes a 'hmm' noise and puts his hand over Laurens' at his brow.

"You must recover quickly," Laurens says in a rush. "I could not... I mean to say... I should wish nothing worse to befall you and if you should recover quickly then I have nothing to fear and I know you would not wish my worry."

Hamilton smiles in a weak way. "I would not."

Laurens squeezes his hand. "Please."

"My mother died of a fever... in St. Croix. We were both ill."

Laurens stares at Hamilton. He knows next to nothing about Hamilton's life before the army, before they met.

"She died of the illness. I only twelve and I lived."

"Why are you telling me this?" Laurens asks quietly.

"If I lived then, I shall live now."

Laurens smiles a little. He does not try to argue the right or wrong of Hamilton's assessment. Hamilton does not say it as truth; he says it for Laurens.

"Of course," Laurens says. "And you are not as ill now as you were in your youth or even in New York, is that not so?"

"Exactly so."

"You are merely resting so that I may look better upon you."

Hamilton chuckles and lets his hand fall from Laurens'. Laurens pulls his hand back from Hamilton's forehead and puts his hand over Hamilton's again on the bed.

"I was sixteen years when my mother passed," Laurens admits. Hamilton's face turns more attentive. "The birth of my youngest sister."

Hamilton nods a fraction.

Laurens smiles a little. "Her loss did little to improve my father. I do not fault him for it. I could understand." He smiles and looks down at his hand on Hamilton's.

"John..." Hamilton starts.

"Jack," Laurens says suddenly without thought.

Hamilton Frowns. "What?"

Laurens laughs at himself that he should feel suddenly shy at the intimacy of a name when they have shared far more in the flesh. "My family calls me Jack."

Hamilton smiles. "And am I family?"

"You are something more," Laurens admits honestly.

Hamilton seems to stop breathing for a moment – mouth tight and eyes wide. He whispers. "Well... my Jack."

Laurens smiles slowly then leans over Hamilton, kissing him lightly. "You should sleep."

"I shall sleep well with my Jack near."

Laurens smiles at the name again. "I wish I could sleep beside you."

"You could."

Laurens laughs quietly. "Alexander..."

"Jack."

"Close your eyes and I shall be here." He brushes his hand over Hamilton's eyes so they close. "And you will be well by morning."

Hamilton smiles but keeps his eyes closed. "For you then, my Jack."

"Your Jack," Laurens repeats.

* * *

Laurens sleeps that night in the other bed in the room with Hamilton. Tilghman and Harrison are both unperturbed about the temporary loss of their room.

"Meade and I shall make your bedroom far more merry than when you were the second occupant," Tilghman says with a grin.

"Should I fear?" Laurens asks as he hands Tilghman his extra shirt.

Tilghman only laughs once as he turns away toward the smaller bedroom. Harrison collects a pair of books and makes his way up to the Garret saying only something in passing about 'daughters.'

Fitzgerald, however, takes some issue with the situation.

"You chose my bed?"

Laurens frowns. "I did not consider which bed at the time, only his need."

"And my sheets should now become dirty with his sweat."

Laurens frowns more. "They are hardly your sheets as it is not truly your house."

Fitzgerald crosses his arms in annoyance. "I have kept care of them thus far."

"What then? Shall I drag him from the bed for your sheets' benefit? Would the floor suit his fever better?"

Fitzgerald's posture eases slightly. "I should not desire him ill, of course."

"Of course and he sleeps now and if it worry you so then I shall find you sheets anew upon the return of your bed."

Fitzgerald gives Laurens a look, glances at the closed bedroom door then nods once before following where Harrison led up the stairs. Laurens watches Fitzgerald go and wonders exactly where this fussy part of Fitzgerald came from? All men have their quirks it can be said.

Laurens sits up for a while that night watching Hamilton sleep, trying to look for any sign of worsening symptoms. However, his eyes soon droop and he takes to the other bed.

When Laurens wakes in the morning, the first thing he sees is Hamilton half propped up in bed with parchment on top of a book leaning against his legs and the hurried scratch of a quill.

"Hamilton."

Hamilton glances at Laurens. "Good morning."

"What are you doing?"

"Writing."

"Why?"

"I should think that clear."

"I mean why now?"

"The committee meeting is in but a week."

"Yes, a full week."

Hamilton looks at Laurens again with mild derision. "And how many more drafts should I need and his Excellency shall need to read it as well."

Laurens sits up in bed, pushing his hair behind his ears. "And how much time will you lose should your fever worsen at such an early return to work? You have done such not one day ago." Hamilton makes a noncommittal noise. "Ah ha, no argument to that."

Hamilton gives him a look as Laurens stands from his bed in only his shirt and small clothes. Hamilton appears distracted for a moment then looks back at his paper. "I am in bed."

Laurens grabs his breeches, half falling into them. "I do appreciate this concession but..." Laurens buttons his breeches as he walks over then attempts to take Hamilton's papers.

Hamilton pulls them back just in time. "Laurens, do not act the child."

"I act the child?"

"Work and our army are of paramount importance. I am at ease, I am in bed, what else shall you wish?"

Laurens frowns. He picks up his waistcoat from the chair where he laid it and pulls it over his shoulders. "This is not over."

He grabs a tie for his hair, and attempts to order it as he leaves the room. He hurries down the stairs, checking the office once to see who is risen. The General spies him as he walks by, saying his name once.

"Sir?" Laurens says, stopping in the door with his hands still in his hair.

"How fares Hamilton?"

"He appears better I may think."

The General nods. "If you could assist him today with the draft for the committee."

Laurens nods as well. "I had intended to, if your Excellency could spare me."

"Gladly."

"Thank you, sir."

Laurens finally ties tight the knot around his hair then turns back toward his intended destination of the kitchen. He leaves by the side door, down the short stairs and into the kitchens, the air warm with the cooking breakfast.

"Sarah?"

The young woman turns at her name. "Eh?"

"Yesterday my colleague Tilghman obtained a draft from you for Lt. Col. Ham –"

"Oh yes." She bustles toward a cabinet, pulling out jars with what looks like dried herbs. "His fever." She mashes some of the herbs up with a mortar and pestle before squeezing the formed juices into a glass. She picks up a pitcher and pours some water over them. She holds up the glass to see better, swirls it around once in her hand then holds it out sidelong to Laurens. "Make him drink it all."

Laurens takes the glass with a quick, "Thank you, miss."

Laurens hurries back up the stairs, realizing once he reaches the top that his waistcoat remains unbuttoned and he wears no cravat. "Father would be appalled," Laurens mutters to himself as he walks back into the bedroom.

Hamilton glances up as Laurens walks in. His eyes focus on the glass. "Remedy for the weak?"

"Remedy for the ill."

He puts his quill down. "A pleasure."

Laurens hands him the glass, sitting on his chair of yesterday, watching Hamilton quickly drink the whole glass.

Hamilton hands the glass back with another grimace. "Bitter root to be sure."

"I am sure it is roots."

"And you would know?"

Laurens gives him a look.

Hamilton picks up his quill. "Apologies, my head still..."

"You could lie back once more and sleep later. Why should you rise this early?"

"My sleep was erratic as the sun rose."

Laurens frowns. He wonders how it could be helped. Draw the curtains tighter? A warmer fire perhaps? Laurens realizes then that the room is chill and the fire but embers. "Blast."

He stands up and adds a log from the small stack beside the hearth. He crouches low so he can blow on the embers. For a moment, he worries his efforts are in vain but then some of the bark on the log catches, sparking, dry enough to burn. Laurens smiles then stands again. He turns to see Hamilton watching him. There is something in his face, something fond but different. Laurens cannot say.

Hamilton sighs once. "Thank you."

Laurens nods and wonders what Hamilton thinks.

Laurens spends the morning with Hamilton, finding lists among Hamilton's pile, checking in ledgers stacked on one chair. Hamilton breathes heavy now and then, stops to press a hand to his head. Laurens wants to grasp his hand, push him down to rest, to kiss his brow every time his expression knits in pain. But the door to the room is open, the sun shining, Meade coming up to ask if they need anything, Fitzgerald bustling around them to steal back a ledger or Tilghman bringing up yet another root draft for Hamilton.

"No one should think less of you for resting," Laurens says, watching the tone of Hamilton's skin, the rise and fall of his chest, the shake of his hand.

"I am resting." Hamilton insists. "My writing is far slower." Hamilton is not wrong in this.

Sometime after the midday meal, Laurens descends below stairs briefly leaving Hamilton to his writing realizing he has not eaten himself today at all.

"Have we any coffee?" Laurens asks, poking his head into the full aide office.

Fitzgerald and Harrison look up at him from one table, Fitzgerald glancing around as if to find some on his desk.

"How fares your patient?" Meade asks seated nearest the door.

Laurens shrugs once. "Much the same."

"Writing?" Tilghman and Harrison say together.

Laurens only smiles.

"Have my coffee," Meade says. "I have no taste for it now."

Laurens gives him an incredulous look. "Have you not?"

"Gibbs was here earlier," Fitzgerald says, "writing in your stead and he told Meade of some instances of frost bite among the soldiers."

Meade frowns again, shoving the mug into Laurens' hands. "Take it."

"Mon ami." Laurens turns around to see Lafayette standing behind him. He must have been in General Washington's office.

"Good afternoon."

Lafayette nods once. "Do you play nurse now?"

"I do."

"And such a gallant nurse he is," Meade quips, "though lacking proper dress, shall we find you a gown?"

Laurens frowns at Meade and considers throwing the mug at him.

Tilghman and Fitzgerald get there first however, Fitzgerald snapping, "what were it you with the fever, Kidder, jest less!" and Tilghman throws a glove from across the room, hitting Meade in the face.

Laurens smiles at the support then turns back to Lafayette. "Are you here about the committee meeting as well?"

Lafayette nods. "I hope it shall provide the needed improvements. As I understand it, Congress is often slow to respond to needs. Perhaps the committee with produce better results."

Laurens nods, "we all hope," and takes a sip of Meade's coffee. It is half-cold now but it eases the cramping of his stomach.

Lafayette puts a hand on Laurens' shoulder, turning him out of the doorway. "Is Hamilton at work now?"

"Yes."

Lafayette nods. "I have faith in his words to plead our case. General Washington and I have assembled a fresh count of artillery for his inclusion." Lafayette holds up a folded piece of paper.

Laurens nods and gestures to the stairs. "Should you wish to bring it to him yourself?"

Lafayette purses his lips. "I should not wish to disturb him."

"From which, his writing or rest?"

Lafayette gives Laurens a rueful look. "He manages both?"

Laurens smirks back. "So he says."

The two of them climb the stairs, Laurens gulping the coffee. If he should finish it faster perhaps it will not lose all warmth. Laurens walks into the bedroom and stops short only a step in. Hamilton lies slumped against his pillows, papers on the floor and a ledger clearly having knocked over the pitcher of water leaving a puddle under one chair. Hamilton breathes shallowly, his forehead shinny and his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Hamilton!" Laurens cries, crouching quickly beside the bed.

He touches Hamilton's head, quite hot under his hand. He pulls away the paper and quill still on Hamilton's legs, dropping them unceremoniously on the table. "Hamilton, do you feel worse? Hamilton, say something."

Hamilton makes a soft groan, opening one eye then breathing in sharply. "I..." He closes his eyes again. "My head..."

Laurens turns frantically to Lafayette standing in the door, his expression drawn.

"Hamilton..." Laurens looks around for the cloth he used last night, finding it trapped under the pitcher. He grabs it up, moping at the sweat on Hamilton's brow. He takes a deep breath in.

"Calm, Laurens," Lafayette says as he steps beside him.

Laurens nods once then shakes his head. "You should have rested properly," Laurens chides Hamilton.

"I shall..." he mutters, opening his eyes, his breath off. "You... right in... in this."

Laurens notices Lafayette moving around behind him, picking up the fallen papers. Laurens rights the pitcher, a small amount of water still in the bottom. He picks up the glass from the table and pours the remaining water in it. "Here, drink."

Hamilton tilts his head enough to drink from the glass in Laurens' hand. "Ah, I work too hard, you could say," Hamilton says, getting some of his breath back.

"There is much to do," Laurens concedes.

"And yet a week."

"And you have finished more in less time."

"Have I?" Hamilton asks, the body trembling slightly.

"You can." Laurens puts the glass back down then stands up.

Lafayette stands on the other side of the small table, papers in his hands. He holds them toward Laurens. "A good start of a draft. Even ill, our little lion works better than much of us."

"Except Tilghman," Hamilton says with a weak smile.

"You jest?" Laurens says looking at him in concern.

"To ease your worry, of course," Hamilton says slowly.

Lafayette touches Laurens' shoulder as he puts the draft back on the table on top of a ledger. "Stay with him. I shall inform the General. Should I call for a surgeon?"

"No," Hamilton insists before Laurens can. "It is... my fault, I... no."

He closes his eyes and Laurens distractedly pulls the blanket up higher. "Thank you, Marquis."

Lafayette only nods once then leaves the room, his feet quiet on the stairs.

Laurens closes the door then sits down in the chair beside Hamilton's bed again. He rubs his hands together once then takes one of Hamilton's. "Why should you endeavor to worry me so, Alexander?"

"I did not inten–"

"No no, did not intend. Did you think your mere writing was not of such a strenuous nature as to cause ill? You have been proven wrong."

Hamilton nods only, his face starting to ease with signs of coming sleep. Laurens squeezes Hamilton's hand again and runs his other hand over Hamilton's brow and his messy hair. He wants to say something cross, anger at Hamilton's disregard for his health; he wants to say something soothing, something to ease Hamilton's fevered pain; he wants to say please be well, please do not grow worse, please do not... Laurens only sighs and sits back in his chair to let Hamilton sleep now as he should have all day.

"My dear imbecile," Laurens mutters to himself.

Laurens stays by Hamilton's bed. For near an hour he simply watches Hamilton, watches his breathing, the pallor of his skin, the twitch of his hands. Then Hamilton takes a turn for the worse. He shivers hard, soft sounds in his sleep and his skin so pale. Several times Laurens nearly calls for the surgeon as Hamilton's sweats and groans. He opens his eyes a few times and once appears to not see Laurens beside him.

Laurens mops Hamilton's brow with his handkerchief, whispers, "you cannot leave me now."

Hamilton whimpers in his sleep, his eyes moving behind his eyelids. How did he look when the fever first took him? Was he worse then? Was this, as he appears now, a prelude to what would occur? Should Laurens know better? Laurens holds Hamilton's hand and squeezes so hard he may hurt them both.

After several hours, Hamilton begins to calm, the shivers ceasing and his breath slowing. Laurens watches his arms until he sees no more shaking. Hamilton's face relaxes, no longer a tight knot of pain.

When Hamilton appears faithfully still and peaceful, Laurens lights a candle in the now dark and contents himself with organizing Hamilton's notes. He jots down a few points about the artillery in the section Hamilton already wrote from the new pages Lafayette provided. The draft Hamilton started looks near done, a few notes Hamilton made to himself about what should be added. Lafayette was right in his assessment of how much Hamilton could accomplish even when ill.

"My dear genius," Laurens says as he reads the draft.

"What do you think?" Laurens looks up at Hamilton's soft voice. Hamilton smiles in a tired fashion. "Can you read in this light?"

"Barely." Laurens puts the pages aside. "And I think it very well written, as you always accomplish."

Hamilton makes a 'hmm' noise as he shifts on the bed with a grimace, rolling onto his side somewhat so he leans against the wall. "I have more to add."

"Lafayette brought some information from the General as well," Laurens says, "I made a note."

"Oh?"

"You may see it later."

Hamilton does not protest. "Have you sat here all day?"

"Yes."

Hamilton frowns. "I should not take you from your duties."

"I would let you take me from anything, healthy or sick." Laurens shifts forward closer to the bed. "I would have no other watch over you."

"Laurens..."

Laurens shakes his head. "Someone should have watched you regardless. You were worse for a time but you appear past such now. "

"I should..." Hamilton does not finish his words, only smiles. They stare at one another for a moment. Then Hamilton whispers. "I cannot understand how you have done this to me, John."

Laurens frowns. "I have done?"

"How you have found my heart." Laurens' mouth clicks closed and he grips his knees. "I should have wished to keep you – to keep all a step away. I cannot... I could not bear..."

"I know," Laurens says quickly. "The time between us is short and yet..." He laughs once self-consciously.

Hamilton continues to watch him. "Yes."

They look at each other, Hamilton's breathing better than it had been. He coughs once and Laurens picks up the glass of water, not yet empty, handing it to him.

"You are not the first," Laurens suddenly says.

Hamilton takes a drink then pulls he glass down again. "What?"

"I mean to say, I have... at school there was Frank." Laurens smiles briefly, taking back the glass. "Francis Kinloch was his name. We were... well, youth makes one rash at times."

"And you are not rash now?" Hamilton says with some inoffensive rebuke in his tone.

Laurens huffs a laugh. "In different ways perhaps. I thought my heart something more easy to lease. But... but it should not be."

"And?"

"And I do not think you something easy on my heart, something I should have rushed into despite only months in our past but you, Alexander, you are..." Hamilton watches him, silent, breath even and though his body sags his eyes focus only on Laurens. Laurens wonders at himself speaking so freely of such matters but Hamilton pulls forth truth from him, truth and care and desire. "You feel as something lasting," Laurens admits.

Hamilton's lip quirks a little "More than any other man... any other woman?"

Laurens thinks unbidden of a long dress, a minister, his father's stern face, a baby he could barely face. Then he looks at Hamilton once more – cheeks pink with fever, red hair to match, the curve of his mouth, hands Laurens wants to hold.

"More than any other."

Hamilton smiles. "You have taken me entirely by surprise, snuck past my plans, my Jack, but now you have found your way in... I would not have you leave again."

Laurens leans over the bed to press a kiss to Hamilton's lips. Hamilton sighs a little, be it fever or feeling or both. Laurens pulls back enough to touch Hamilton's forehead.

"So you must understand, Alexander, I need you well. Do you hear my words? I need you well."

"Yes," Hamilton whispers.

"Lie back." Laurens presses a hand to Hamilton's chest. "Sleep once more. It is more restorative than so many medicines."

"And your drafts so very bitter," Hamilton says as he lies down on his back once more.

Laurens nods. "What else shall I do to heal you? I could keep watch all night. Naught shall grow worse under my eye."

"You need not."

Laurens glances around the room. "Perhaps words instead, something other than our committee." Laurens tries at humor though his heart still feels tight with fears. "I suspect I could formulate some poetry to ease your sufferings."

Hamilton laughs once. "Oh, I suspect poetry to sometimes cause ills. In my youth I mistook some writings of my own as worthwhile when perhaps they were less so."

Laurens raises his eyebrows. "Poetry?"

"Of a kind."

"Well now, my Alexander, such surprises."

Hamilton smiles. His hand searches across the blanket to thread his fingers with Laurens'. "You beside me is..." He looks serious, grave even. "It is what I should want." He shakes his head, his expression like a grimace. "I do not understand it."

"Alexander?"

"I do not understand it." His expression softens into fond, affectionate. "I wish I could have you forever."

"You can," Laurens says quickly – he thinks of a large house, many rooms, Hamilton in all of them but only one they would need; a plantation with a library and weeping willows and sunshine and Hamilton walking beside him through the woods, alone and safe and some kind of life. Then he swallows quickly, squeezing Hamilton's hand, crushing the impossible in his mind, knowing Hamilton's thoughts. "Do not worry of the world now. I am beside you here, in this moment.

"What should be your goal now?" Laurens asks. "To be well, to rest and recover your health for then you must finish what you have started and then we have much more to concern us with the army, the British, our fight? All else must wait its turn. Do you mark me?"

Hamilton nods enough for notice. "Yes."

"So close your eyes, my Alex."

Hamilton closes his eyes but does not let go of Laurens' hand.

"Trust me, sleep now, please."

"I could not disappoint you," Hamilton replies quietly.

Laurens runs his free hand gently over Hamilton's hair, untwisting small knots and realigning rouge hairs in place until Hamilton's hand goes slack in his grip. He watches Hamilton breathe, just the rise and fall of his chest, the part of his lips. He watches him breathe even when it is too dark to see.

* * *

Laurens wakes up with a start to the feeling of a hand on his head. He pulls his head up out of his arms, his back stabbing in protest. He hisses once as he sits up. He realizes he still sits beside Hamilton's bedside having fallen asleep hunched over near Hamilton's knees. He turns to Hamilton, his eyes open and looking at Laurens. It is his hand on Laurens' hair.

"Hello," Hamilton says.

"Hello."

Hamilton smiles once. "I did as you asked. I feel near well."

"Yes?"

Hamilton touches the back of his hand to his forehead. "Less warm at the least."

Laurens smiles as he sits up properly. "But you should still remain abed to recuperate today. Do not think you can write now because –"

"Shh," Hamilton says, putting a hand over Hamilton's lips. "I will not. I will stay here, quiet and still as you wish."

Laurens chuckles as Hamilton pulls his hand away. "I am amazed."

Hamilton smirks a little. "My lovely Jack, I said I could not disappoint you."

Laurens smiles back and thinks words like charming. "Good."

Hamilton stays true to his word and rests the whole day. He stays in bed, drinks water and some wine, eats some eggs which Tilghman brings him speaking of Meade's adventure with the chicken. General Washington even checks in on Hamilton, expressing his confidence in Hamilton's recovery and ability to finish the committee letter in time when he is well. Laurens leaves the room for only short spurts; he writes a letter to his father, talks to Lafayette about a proposed expedition to Canada. He sits in the same chair, reads Hamilton his draft when Hamilton wakes and watches him while he sleeps. He worries perhaps his partiality to Hamilton shines too clear but what do the other men know of his heart? Friendship is what any may see and Laurens is a fervent friend to have. More so he would gladly risk any suspicion to see Hamilton well at the end.

"You are as vigilant over me as Odysseus in his journey."

Laurens chuckles. "You my waiting Penelope?"

Hamilton smiles. "I am right here."

"And you shall stay here."

Hamilton nods. "I promise."

As all hoped, Hamilton is sufficiently well the following day. Though they keep him to his bed, he sits up writing the day away. Laurens listening to his reading and his changes. Harrison paces behind them, relaying the case of regiment surgeons and hospital surgeons having their endless conflict while Fitzgerald reports briefly on the commissary. Laurens watches Hamilton carefully until the document is written and delivered to his Excellency with time left before the appointed day. Even when recovering from illness, Hamilton's words do not fail any of them.

Come Wednesday, the day before the Committee meeting, Laurens stands in the doorway to the smaller bedroom. Hamilton finally moved to the smaller room, ousting Meade – who was very obliging – to the attic and giving the other men their original quarters back.

Laurens holds his hat under his arm and a copy of Hamilton's letter in his other hand. "I do regret you are unable to attend the meeting."

Hamilton, sitting up in bed, purses his lips. "I agree but the General deems you and Tilghman enough."

Laurens shakes his head. "You know if you were fully well he would have brought you."

Hamilton glances away. "My words shall carry in my stead."

"They will."

Hamilton looks back at Laurens. "You must relate to me all of the debate and reactions. I would hear any criticism."

"It shall not be criticism of your writing, you know; it will be the matters themselves."

Hamilton 'humphs' and fiddles with some paper on his lap. Laurens steps closer into the room and stands beside Hamilton's bed. Hamilton looks up at him. "I shall return in due course and tell you every detail."

"Good."

"And you shall be fully recovered then."

Hamilton nods. "I shall."

Laurens glances at the door toward the empty hall then leans over to kiss Hamilton quickly. Hamilton gasps quietly as Laurens pulls back. "Promise?"

Hamilton smiles. "As ever I can."

Laurens nods and stands up straight again. "Good."

Then he turns and walks toward the hall but Hamilton's voice stops him just at the door with, "Jack?"

Laurens looks back over his shoulder. Hamilton watches him, his mouth open slightly then he closes it and smiles like he did the night when they spoke of little time and more affection. Laurens smiles back with the same heart in his throat and it is enough between them, more than any words they could say or need because they know.


End file.
